For two hundred dollars an hour
I can get a doctor to tell me
why I talk to my dad more now
than when he was here.
Maybe as I get older and closer to his age
I'm finally seeing things the way he did
or find some kind of comfort in talking
to him from inside my head
Dad always got the tough jobs, you know,
and I, I was the toughest job he ever had.
I spat on people. They teased me.
I bopped them with my sister's baton.
They teased me, and laughed at me.
I bit them on the ass.
They stuffed me in a garbage can.
So it fell to him to be the bearer
of the swift and mighty blow
to bring the little bastard to his senses
or to render him senseless so he
couldn't hurt anyone for a while.
... But these decades later I find
We talk more now
and I have a different view
of him and the years
we spent together.
I know he was winging it
and I was a whirling dervish.
By Anthony Buccino
adapted from TALK MORE NOW, a poem in progress from the SIXTEEN INCHES ON CENTER collection.
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1 comment:
I still have one of those trophies, you can see it at the Sixteen Inches On Center link.
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